


The Flower Seller On The Rue De La Chanvrerie

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, M/M, of Combeferre's Mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme. Combeferre finds himself completely bewitched by one of the florists in Paris, and (not so subtly) makes an effort to see him as often as he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flower Seller On The Rue De La Chanvrerie

Combeferre had never truly been a man for flowers. He liked moths, and he liked butterflies, and he adored the way certain plants grew out their leaves and how herbs grew with their charming, arresting scents, but flowers? They had simply never taken him.

Combeferre could still appreciate their beauty, whether captured via Prouvaire's limn of a new piece of poetry, or through a painting Feuilly had done, or even on the occasional nights Courfeyrac held a bouquet to bestow among a grisette. 

Bahorel had once joked that Courfeyrac's use of flowers was an excellent way to spread a woman's legs, and the centre had just regarded him with wide eyes before saying, in the most innocent and earnest words Combeferre had ever heard him utter, "You are missing out on the most glorious smiles if you believe that's what flowers are for."

Bahorel had bought flowers the next day, and come to the Musain that evening with his cheeks still flushed and his heart still beating fast. 

Combeferre knew the worth of flowers, but held no real...  _Attraction_  to women. He respected the women of Paris, respected their struggles and the difficulties they faced in the workplace and from men who would predate upon them, and he fought to ensure the women he knew were safe and comfortable. 

At the very least, he was not alone in proclivity.

Enjolras held very little attraction for most people, but when he did it could be for men or for women - more often men, Combeferre had noted, but he was fairly certain this came from the social circles they traversed as opposed to his interest being lesser. And Enjolras was so  _secretive_  about his love affairs to his friends outside Combeferre and Courfeyrac anyway, so what did it truly matter?

Courfeyrac was a passionate lover, whether his current love was male or female or, occasionally, because Courfeyrac traversed social circles and met people Combeferre could never dream of without meeting them, lovers who were not truly either.  _  
_

Combeferre's attitude towards buying flowers changed entirely when he was walking the Rue de la Chanvrerie with Enjolras, the latter striding magnificently, Combeferre walking in a comfortable way more appropriate for mortals, and he stopped short, his breath stolen from his lungs by some smug God of Love.

His lips parted, his heart beat fast and heavy in his chest, and he looked upon this divinity's face with wide eyes. The man could not have been much younger than he, with thick, dark locks that were tousled artfully around his face, gloriously green eyes, lips that were chapped but pink, and skin that was marked with stubble. 

Combeferre caught Enjolras' arms, firmly arresting his movement as he stopped short on the pavement to regard this beauty, and Enjolras blinked at him owlishly. " _What_?"

"I- oh, do you know, Enjolras, do not worry yourself. Continue on, and I'll meet you in an hour or so at the Musain?" The blond stared at him.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, I've just remembered an errand, my good fellow: it's nothing of utter importance, just a mild thing. I'll see you in two hours' time?"

"If you wish." Enjolras said, still, to all appearances, thoroughly baffled, and he gripped Combeferre's arm affectionately before moving on. Combeferre reached into his pocket, removing a few coins, and then stepped towards the man.

He was dressed simply; a blue waistcoat over white shirt sleeves. He wore no coat or jacket, but Combeferre spied one at his feet, folded messily under a basket. He talked well with a sweet-looking grisette, the both of them laughing, and when he grinned, Combeferre's pounding heart skipped a beat entirely, and he felt like his knees might well collapse from beneath him.

"Uh, hallo?" The man and the woman stopped their conversation, and the man fixed Combeferre with a warm, gentle smile. 

"Flowers, monsieur?"

"Yes, please, I- for my mother, which should I...?"

"I know just the ones, monsieur." The man crouched on the ground, and he picked out flowers with clever, deft hands (Combeferre considered those hands in his hair, on his lips, on his body, and his cheeks flushed pink for it). "Lilacs and orchids, in soft pinks." He wrapped the bouquet carefully in brown paper, and Combeferre took it gratefully.

"Thank you ever so much!" He said in an earnest tone, and he handed over the coins, which the flower seller took with a teasing bow and the tip of a mock hat (and God, Combeferre was glad this charming creature wore no hat, for his hair in its mussed, beautiful curls was ever so enchanting) that made Combeferre laugh. As he walked on, cradling the flowers, he worried over his laugh, if it sounded undignified, if he had served only to humiliate himself by chortling at the man's jest.

He did not see the brunet's gaze linger on his back as he walked away.

\---

Combeferre's mother adored the flowers. She had beamed at him, kissed his cheek and firmly informed him that he was the best son any mother could wish for, and she was exceedingly lucky to have him. He worried over a cut on her hand, but she waved him off.

"But did you clean it, mother?" He asked desperately.

"Of course I did,  _petit_ , you are a doctor and you have taught me well!" She said fondly, cupping his cheek as she set about making them tea. "I cleaned it thoroughly, and now it is healing just fine. Oh, do tell me about those friends of yours now, entertain an old woman."

"You are hardly old, mother."

"Oh, Émile, you are a darling man. One day, you will make your wife very happy." She said, and he looked at her. "Now, do tell me, what has that Benoît Enjolras been up to?"

" _Awful_  things, mother." Combeferre joked, and then he settled into conversation with her, because she was his mother, and she loved to hear of the ridiculous friends he kept. He did not talk of their politics. He did not talk of the meetings in the backroom of the Café Musain, or of the revolution coming, or of the price of carabines in this time. 

He spoke of the more acceptable things, and she laughed with joy. 

Combeferre elected, as he walked to the Café Musain an hour later, to make this a weekly thing. He felt he had been recently neglecting his mother, who was cheery despite her status as a widow, and although she was hardly lonely with her friends and the pleasant enough serving staff, he worried for her.

And if seeing his mother more regularly also meant buying her flowers more regularly, well. What was the harm in that?

\---

The flower seller, it seemed, was not always on the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Combeferre found this while taking a walk there (a completely casual promenade, thank you, that had nothing to do with the flower seller's gorgeous contenance). 

It seemed that he sold flowers on Tuesdays and on Thursdays, and on the afternoons of Saturday and Sundays. On the other days, Combeferre could not say. 

So he decided to go the next Thursday. He bought his lilacs and his orchids, and simply because today the brunet was alone, without a grisette at his side to laugh at Combeferre, the doctor inquired as to his name.

"Mine? Aimé Grantaire, monsieur."

"Émile Combeferre." He returned softly, and with a kind smile, he deliberately said, "I would... Appreciate it, if you would call me Émile. Monsieur is far too much of an air for me." He did not make any anti-classist statements in the bold, aggressive fashion Enjolras would have, but all the same, the brunet's lips quivered.

"If you will, Émile." And to hear his name from such lips - Combeferre's breath was arrested not for the first time. 

"Thank you for the flowers, my good man."

"It is of no consequence." And Combeferre was so silly, Hell, the man surely did not share his proclivities, and even if he  _did_ , what on Earth would it lead to? He dropped into deep thought as he took his walk, but managed to shake himself out of it when he saw his mother. 

"Oh, good evening, child." She greeted him, her voice slightly raspy, and he frowned, concerned.

"Mother, are you ill?"

"Merely a cold, my boy, truly, I am fine. Tea?" He frowned, but she did not seem awfully sick, and as he popped in a few times that week, she got a little work, with chills and the symptoms of a light flu, but it was slowly resolving the next week when he brought her her regular bouquet, and he relaxed again.

"What is it you do, Émile?" Grantaire asked as he handed over the bouquet the next week, and Combeferre blinked over his spectacles at the question, regarding the other man thoughtfully.He had not really been thinking of anything except Grantaire's lesser height, and how Combeferre would have to bend or how the other would have to stand on tip-toes in order to embrace each other, and he opened and closed his mouth in an odd fashion before he managed to muster an answer.

"I'm training to be a doctor. A year's more study and I shall practise."

 _"Oh_." Grantaire said, and he looked stricken, wide-eyed as he regarded the other. "God, I am so sorry, I must be wasting your time with these questions, I didn't realize-" Combeferre stopped the other short with a hand on his upper arm.

"Oh, you don't waste my time,  _mon ami!_ " He said firmly. "I rather enjoy our discourse." Grantaire swallowed hard, his Adam's Apple bobbing quite visibly at his throat, and Combeferre felt something stir in his belly as he considered drawing that reaction from Grantaire whilst he traced the skin with his teeth. Grantaire looked at Combeferre's hand, which lingered on his shoulder, and Combeferre withdrew it rapidly. "Apologies." He said, flustered, and Grantaire's cheeks flushed almost as much as Combeferre's, looking down at the ground. "I, well, I shall see you, uh, next week!"

And he nearly  _ran_  down the street, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to move.

That week was good. There had been numerous successes among  _les amis_ , across Paris, Combeferre's studies were going well, his mother was happy and content with no sign of further influenza, and the sun was  _shining_.

He almost skipped to Grantaire's place on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and Grantaire let out a joyful little laugh as he regarded the other man. "You are cheery today, sir!"

"Yes, sir, I am!" Combeferre said, and he cupped Grantaire's cheek fondly, brightly, as he let out a joyful little sound. It was undignified, this was true, but who cared? They were all men before God, dignified or no. "The usual bouquet, and two red roses, sir!" Combeferre said in a fit of impulsivity.

"Two red roses?" Grantaire repeated, and he nodded, chuckling as he knelt to pick them from the pile. Combeferre cradled the bouquet in the crook of his arm, and firmly put the one rose in the lapel of his jacket. He did not see the drop to Grantaire's face. "A lover, is it, my good Émile?" His voice dripped with some sudden sullenness, but Combeferre merely  _winked_  at him before he took a step forward and pinned the other rose to Grantaire's lapel - a match to Combeferre's own.

Grantaire's mouth was open as their bodies were flush together, and Combeferre was careful not to crush the bouquet in his arm as he put the rose on the other man. "Ah, a charming sight!" He said firmly, and then he leaned to press a firm, delighted kiss to Grantaire's stubbled cheek. "A good day to you, Aimé Grantaire! May your week be merry!" 

And then Combeferre was gone, his cheeks flushed the brightest of scarlets possible, and Grantaire swayed on the paving, clutching at his cheek with his hand as he let out a soft giggle only to himself.

Combeferre was still feeling elated when he knocked on the door to his mother's property, and let himself in, but his bouquet dropped to the ground when he saw her laid up in the sitting room, a wet cloth on her forehead, her skin glowing unhealthily with sweat. 

"Mother?" He asked in a broken voice, and the serving girl at her side looked up, and bit her lip hard.

"Monsieur Combeferre, sir." She greeted him nervously, and indicated for him to come forwards.

\---

 _Les amis de l'ABC_  did not see Combeferre's face for a full month. When they did, there were bags under his eyes, and his face was not merely stricken with obvious melancholy, but with an unhealthy pallidity that came from no sleep and much anxiety.

"My mother's funeral is tomorrow." He said softly, but despite his bare whisper, every one of them heard his words. "She did so love to hear of all of you, I would- I would appreciate it if you would attend-"

"Of course we will." Enjolras said solemnly, and Combeferre was grateful for Courfeyrac's sudden presence at his side, supporting him, holding him closely. 

"I need to go to the Rue de la Chanvrerie." Combeferre whispered in Courfeyrac's ear, and he did not object when Courfeyrac called them a cab. Grantaire's face was ecstatic when he saw Combeferre, and he stepped forwards.

"Émile, I missed y- Oh, hello, sir." He greeted Courfeyrac politely, his hands dropping from where he'd been reaching out to grasp Combeferre's hand. "The usual flowers?" He asked, and Combeferre shook his head, and he swallowed hard.

"No. I wonder if you might do a delivery for me, tomorrow morning."

"A delivery? I can, for you." And there was significance in those words, even though Grantaire did not sell flowers on a Wednesday, and both of them knew, but Combeferre could not bring himself to voice affection for the other man.

"A funeral bouquet. Please." Grantaire's face dropped, and he looked at Combeferre in a stricken fashion.

"Your mother, she...? But barely two months ago, you-"

"I know." Combeferre whispered, and Grantaire closed his mouth: of course he knew. A stupid thing to say. Courfeyrac subtly stepped back towards the cab, allowing them their conversation without his ears to hear it, and Grantaire reached out for the other's hand. 

"I will accompany you." He said firmly. 

"You needn't-"

"I must." Grantaire said sharply, and Combeferre thought of how long he had wept last night, for his mother and for her illness, and for how she had suffered in delirium, how he had tried to calm her, how now she looked peaceful, at least. Combeferre whispered his address, and Grantaire nodded firmly. "I will bring your bouquet." 

\---

Combeferre did not sleep that night. His throat was racked with sobs, his eyes wept freely, and when he spoke to Enjolras in the morning in their shared apartment, his voice rasped in a throaty fashion that could not be helped.

The knock at the door came promptly, at exactly ten on the hour, and Grantaire wore a lily at his breast, over his black jacket. "Come, I've one for you." He said quietly, and he pinned it to Combeferre's chest in some sick parody of the way Combeferre had pinned the rose to his a month before - the Gods were cruel and of their caprices, Combeferre decided.

Grantaire took his arm during the funeral, his warm and his grasp an incredibly striking comfort even in Combeferre's grief. No one commented upon it - and indeed, why should they? Combeferre was an orphan now. He had no family to judge him, no one but the staff his mother had employed, and his friends, and a few of her friends.

The service was quiet, solemn. When Feuilly took Combeferre in a very careful, deliberate embrace, despite his usual avoidance of affectionate touch, Combeferre sobbed, and Feuilly gently rubbed at his back. He knew what it was to be orphaned, and now Combeferre did too.

He did not go to the Musain that night. He retired home, and Grantaire came with him.

Enjolras made no complaint of this, but affixed the man, a stranger to him, with a nod of recognition as he closed the front door behind the three of them. Combeferre removed the lily from his lapel and set it on the sill, drawing closed the curtains.

He took off his clothes, until he was in only his trousers and his shirt, and Grantaire followed suit, but he stripped away his shirt as well, setting it aside, and then settled on the bed next to Combeferre to take his hands. "Black jaundice." Combeferre whispered. "I should have known, when she got that cut, two months ago, I should have-"

"You could not have known." Grantaire said. "And if you had, what could you have done?"

" _Rien_."

"Precisely." Grantaire pushed Combeferre back onto the bed, slipping alongside him and blowing out the candle on the bedside table. "You should sleep. You haven't in what, three days?"

"I've slept."

"Sleep now."

"Aimé-"

"For my sake." Combeferre closed his mouth. He put a slow arm around the other, stroking over the bare skin of his back and enjoying the warmth of the flesh beneath his fingers. He let out a sob, and Grantaire put one hand on the other's chest, another on his shoulder. "Weep. It's alright."

It wasn't alright; Combeferre wept anyway, and Grantaire held him tightly.

\---

When Combeferre woke, he was alone. He dreamily considered that it was Thursday, the day he bought flowers for his mother from the charming specimen of a man on the corner of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and then he came to his senses, and let out a ragged noise.

He wiped over his face, feeling dried tears there, and sighed. The bed had only him in it, and he frowned at the other side of the mattress, knowing from the scent and the dark hairs on the pillow that Grantaire had been there, that it hadn't been some odd dream.

"I would greet you could morning, but it's just turned noon." Combeferre looked up, and Grantaire offered him a weak smile as he stepped across the room, pushing the curtains open and letting daylight stream into the room.

"Oh." He said ineloquently, and Grantaire moved forwards, settling momentarily beside him to lean, and he pressed his lips to Combeferre's. It was tender, fleeting, and Combeferre found himself leaning for more as Grantaire pulled away.

"I'll stay with you today." Grantaire murmured. "My friend Floréal - I told her I'll be absent this week." Combeferre swallowed hard. This week. A week of putting affairs in order, fixing up things, putting away his mother's things. "I'll help you."

"You don't have to."

"I'll help you." Grantaire repeated. Combeferre hesitated, and then he threw his arms around the other's neck, burying his face in the skin there and inhaling deeply. He smelt flowers, musk, paint, and he held Grantaire all the tighter for it.

"Thank you. Dear God, thank you. You are a blessing."

"I was blessed with you." Grantaire returned in a whisper, and held Combeferre right back.

\---

It was a month later that they walked to her grave together, and Combeferre laid the bouquet of white lilies atop the stone. They said nothing, because they did not need to.

Grantaire held Combeferre's hand tightly in his own, their arms interlinked, and that was enough. They both smelled of paint now, because Combeferre stayed at Grantaire's cosy little apartment a few nights a week, and the scent of paint from his canvases seeped into everything.

Combeferre didn't mind; he rather liked it. His heart still felt cracked, and there was an uncomfortable emptiness in his life where his mother had been, but Grantaire was there, and Grantaire helped him through it.

"Do you want to go the Musain?" Grantaire asked quietly, and Combeferre inclined his head.

"Are you going to argue with Enjolras?"

"Only if he says something stupid." Grantaire said, and Combeferre's chuckle was dry.

"Don't you think everything he says is stupid?"

"Most of it, yes." Grantaire agreed, and Combeferre laughed a little. "Kiss me." Grantaire requested, and Combeferre dipped to do so, pressing his lips to Grantaire's and cupping his cheek in a tender fashion.  "Ah." Grantaire sighed quietly. "You and Courfeyrac make him bearable."

They walked on. Combeferre thought of his mother, and of Grantaire, and of the sun sinking below the horizon, and its metaphorical cousin that had yet to rise.

He was glad to have met the flower seller on the Rue de la Chanvrerie. 


End file.
